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It is Catherine Craine and Marie Foley who are coming next. Catherine’s dark eyes and slender height are in marked contrast to .Marie’s blue-eyed petiteness. Catherine and Marie were the Damon and Pythias of our class and one was seldom seen without the other. I can almost hear again the peal of Catherine’s merry laughter as she goes by. She was the dependable girl of the class; when something went wrong, did we not always look to her to right it? While Marie’s lovableness and gentle sympathy made her the friend of all, and I turn away with a regret which is only momentary, for two other girls have appeared in the long hall. They are Geraldine Mahoney and Gayle Byrne—two of the merriest girls of the class. Gayle, who was so like her name, an irrespressible whirlwind of joy and mirth, and Geraldine, whose quiet exterior bade a fund of girlish wit and humor.
Oh! here is Rose Cassidy, and it is the tilt of her chin and the flash of her eyes that remind me of the days when she would lead the history class with her brilliant recitations. Ida Wilbur is with her. Quiet, shy and reserved—but always ready in her gentle way to ease the task of another.
Helen Josenhaus, a tall, slight girl, ever reminded me of Shakespeare’s heroine, for nothing she did but smacked of something greater than herself. Helen McGinness is walking with her. She brings back to me the memory of a merry schoolgirl who was ever ready to lend a helping hand.
I can see Elizabeth Kelly and Mabel McElliott now. Tall, calm-faced, serious, friendly Bessie, and Mabel, a sweet-faced girl whose grey-blue eyes and girlish smile remind me of a beloved companionship. She was our class poet and president.
Veronica Carmody is with Loretta Powers. Veronica, who like Longfellow’s heroine was “modest and gentle and sweet— the very type of Priscilla,” and Loretta, a little curly haired girl at whom the class would gasp in astonishment when she did not reach school a half-hour tardy.
The two inseparables, Dixie Eddins and Marcellin Hough, are heralded by a buzz of whispered nothings, for they always had “something to tell you, perfectly wonderful, my dear.” Marcellin—she of the non de plumes, was called Cupid, Tink-a-link and Cheerfulness. She was a dimpled creature of diminutive size with that ineffectual gesture of tossing back that center curling lock which reminded one of the little girls in the nursery rhyme who “had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead.” Dixie Eddins, whose name is like a fragrant breath from the Sunny South, was only a member of our class during its Senior year, but she left a “road of the loving heart” in each girl’s memory. Oh, dear friends with the joyous smiles, your visions have almost faded, but I can never forget you, for your

It is Catherine Craine and Marie Foley who are coming next. Catherine’s dark eyes and slender height are in marked contrast to .Marie’s blue-eyed petiteness. Catherine and Marie were the Damon and Pythias of our class and one was seldom seen without the other. I can almost hear again the peal of Catherine’s merry laughter as she goes by. She was the dependable girl of the class; when something went wrong, did we not always look to her to right it? While Marie’s lovableness and gentle sympathy made her the friend of all, and I turn away with a regret which is only momentary, for two other girls have appeared in the long hall. They are Geraldine Mahoney and Gayle Byrne—two of the merriest girls of the class. Gayle, who was so like her name, an irrespressible whirlwind of joy and mirth, and Geraldine, whose quiet exterior bade a fund of girlish wit and humor.
Oh! here is Rose Cassidy, and it is the tilt of her chin and the flash of her eyes that remind me of the days when she would lead the history class with her brilliant recitations. Ida Wilbur is with her. Quiet, shy and reserved—but always ready in her gentle way to ease the task of another.
Helen Josenhaus, a tall, slight girl, ever reminded me of Shakespeare’s heroine, for nothing she did but smacked of something greater than herself. Helen McGinness is walking with her. She brings back to me the memory of a merry schoolgirl who was ever ready to lend a helping hand.
I can see Elizabeth Kelly and Mabel McElliott now. Tall, calm-faced, serious, friendly Bessie, and Mabel, a sweet-faced girl whose grey-blue eyes and girlish smile remind me of a beloved companionship. She was our class poet and president.
Veronica Carmody is with Loretta Powers. Veronica, who like Longfellow’s heroine was “modest and gentle and sweet— the very type of Priscilla,” and Loretta, a little curly haired girl at whom the class would gasp in astonishment when she did not reach school a half-hour tardy.
The two inseparables, Dixie Eddins and Marcellin Hough, are heralded by a buzz of whispered nothings, for they always had “something to tell you, perfectly wonderful, my dear.” Marcellin—she of the non de plumes, was called Cupid, Tink-a-link and Cheerfulness. She was a dimpled creature of diminutive size with that ineffectual gesture of tossing back that center curling lock which reminded one of the little girls in the nursery rhyme who “had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead.” Dixie Eddins, whose name is like a fragrant breath from the Sunny South, was only a member of our class during its Senior year, but she left a “road of the loving heart” in each girl’s memory. Oh, dear friends with the joyous smiles, your visions have almost faded, but I can never forget you, for your